Page 131 of The SnowFang Storm

“It can’t be a coincidence this is all clustered around the same span of about five years,” Sterling said.

“Hmmm.” I felt the journal cover. There were lumps and bumps in the pages from all the notes and such, but there was one bump that was a little thicker than the rest. I flicked through the pages looking for it. A small index card sat tucked into the binding, and it covered a small metal key taped to the page. It’d been pressed there over an entry that seemed meaningless: something about my great-grandmother’s biscuit recipe. Great-Grandmother had literally taken it to her grave.

The handwriting on the index card was shaky, and the blue ink blurred and ran in two spots, like water had sprinkled it.

Or tears.

Glacier Slope Bank

Box #0393

Fairbanks

You are named successor. Tell no one.

And then signed and dated two days after my mother’s diagnosis.

“Her last trip to Alaska had been the summer I’d turned ten,” I whispered. The box had to have been in the bank nearly fifteen years. “We have to go to Fairbanks.”

Sterling took the card, looked at it, and tucked it back into the pages. “We’ll go in the spring. It’s far too dangerous to go right now and risk being snowed in.”

“But—” I pleaded.

He squeezed my good hand. “The box will still be there in six months.”

Six months.

Eight months—I choked.

Six months seemed forever to wait for the box, and eight months not nearly enough time left with him.

Paternity

As I descended the jet stairs into the cold stillness of the tiny airport a stone’s throw from Canada, the scent of snow and space flooded my system. The late-afternoon sky was low and overcast, the wind cold and damp, and the scent of snow on the breeze.

For a second I saw a flash of coffee-brown eyes and felt the touch of a hand on my face.

But I did feel better, and relatively glad to get back to the pack, even if we’d had to cloak and dagger it. Garrett and Cerys had invited us up for a belated Solstice, and Jun, Cye, and Burian had made the trip up from Manhattan via a flight to Philadelphia (just in case GranitePaw was spying on them), while Sterling and I had flown in from Florida. A few days in the remote part of New York, then Sterling and I were headed to Seattle while we planned our next move.

All those kale-chicken shakes had done their thing. Even if my jeans were now a size too big. I did not enjoy the fragile little waif look.

“This way.” Sterling headed towards the front of a low, squat terminal. A handful of vehicles were parked outside.

It was like every other small, crummy airport I’d ever been to: quiet, still, hunkered down against the cold. The half-dozen cars and trucks were dented, paint chipped, worn, faded.

“Here.” Sterling approached an ancient truck that was probably older than he was by a decade or so. It rattled on its hinges and squeaked like a family of dying mice while shimmying back and forth under the lightest pressure. At some point it had been green… or brown… it was hard to tell. Any chrome trim had been stripped off, no hubcaps, long-faded stickers on the rear window, and years’ worth of dead leaves and pine needles in the bed. No front bumper, the front plate bolted to the grill in an odd way, and a fair amount of rust, and one headlight sagged like an eye trying to leave the socket.

If he’d brought me out this way when we’d first met, I’d have felt right at home.

“Not neutral territory and the local humans aren’t friendly either, so you get to keep an eye out on the drive.” He opened my door with a hard jerk. The metal groaned, and the hinges squealed. “Only the best for you, my Luna.”

“Hey, it’s got floorboards yet.” It did in fact still have a floor, even if the single bench seat was more ducttape than vinyl. I crawled up into the cab and tapped the floor in front of me. Check: metal floor, not wood. Still had a radio—AM only—and the stick shift had been kludged with what looked like a piece of rebar welded straight down into the gearbox. “Can I drive? That is a shit welding job, by the way.”

“No, you can’t drive, especially not if you’re going to judge my repair skills.” He slid in next to me and fished around under the seat. He pulled out a screwdriver and jammed it into the abused-looking ignition cylinder. The truck coughed to life with a wheezing protest before settling into a low, grouchy rumble. He wriggled the stick and half-shoved the truck into reverse with an audible crunch!

“If you can’t find it, grind it,” I said as the truck lurched backward. The frame jolted over the wheels then slid back into place, sort of like a terrifying wooden roller coaster trying to leave the track (and its wheels) at a bad backwoods carnival. “I’m impressed it was there to be found, though.”

The truck shimmied violently as he shifted into first and accelerated, then settled in as the engine roared like he’d floored it, but we moved forward at about the pace of a bumpercar.

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